26. Sam

Sam

When I wake up the next morning, it’s with Finn cuddled into me. I have an arm around her midsection, her flannel pajamas ridden up so our skin touches, the inside of my forearm against her stomach.

I think it too fast to try and block it away: I love you.

My heart starts to pound, and I stare down at her, paralyzed. This isn’t in the plan—it’s definitely not in her plan—but it’s happening. And it’s true. I love her.

Maybe I don’t know what that means. I’ve never been in love before—at least, I don’t think so—but this feels right. Maybe you know you’re in love the moment you feel the urge to say the words. Maybe that’s enough.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I didn’t want to come to the cabin until she wanted to come. Or that last night, while she was telling me about what happened to her, I wanted to throttle the man who got Finn Asher and had the gall to cheat on her. To hurt her. To make her feel anything less than absolutely fucking precious.

She’s gorgeous. A genius. A literal doctor .

I don’t want her to go back to California.

Finn takes a deep, shuddering breath and shifts onto her back, so the sunlight from the windows washes over her face.

Sometimes, when playing with Clementine, I would get this overwhelming sense of awe: a little person, brought into existence by my friends. Impossible to think about. Astounding that between Grey and Ellie, they managed to craft an entire being with toes and fingers and thoughts about Dino nuggets.

I feel an echo of that now, watching as Finn starts to wake up. It’s this feeling of awe, a sense that I’m encountering something amazing. The fact that Finn exists at all is astounding. The fact that she’s in my bed right now, blinking slowly and gazing up at me, a blush rising to her cheeks, is almost impossible.

I love when she blushes. I like knowing I have some power over her like that.

When she surges up, catching my lips with hers, I wrap my hands around her wrists, slowing her down. I pin them to the mattress, kiss her deeper and harder, but not fast. I want to take my time with her.

I read somewhere that it takes women twenty minutes before they’re even ready for penetration, so I take my time, working my way over her neck and collarbone, pulling back every time she tries to increase the pace. Finn is not just a quick fuck to me. And I don’t think she thinks of me that way, either—not after crawling into bed with me last night. Cuddling together. Telling me about what that asshole did to her.

I’m not going to say it yet, but I pour my love over her, lavishing it on her with kisses and touch, feeling her hips and her stomach, hand curving over the little soft spot just above her navel. That spot where she wants a baby to grow.

Lowering my head down, I kiss her there, too. When she puts a hand on the top of my head and nudges me lower, I oblige, smiling when I get to taste her, when her legs clamp around my head, when her body writhes against me, then stills, her pleasure coming in waves that I can feel, her clit pulsing against my tongue.

“Good girl,” I whisper, when I crawl up her body again, whispering kisses against her stomach and chest, my lips grazing over her nipples, which are, somehow, still peaked.

“Fuck you, Braun,” she whispers, and I cock an eyebrow cheekily.

“If you insist.”

***

I’ve been so focused on everything—Finn, getting better, training sessions and games—that I forgot about the videographer that’s been following us everywhere. Recording my training sessions.

Finn’s company has a YouTube channel, and she’s been uploading weekly, giving updates to my progress. And, apparently, it’s taken off. Brett sent me some of the videos last night. I’d watched every single one, transfixed. I could see some minor physical differences in myself, but more than anything, it was a record of my mental game changing. Finn had compiled footage of my attempted saves throughout last season, and up to now, and you can see me moving faster. Making better decisions.

Now, Isaac hands me my phone, mouthing “ It’s Michael.” After I take the phone, Isaac skates away, and I feel a weird thrill of adrenaline in my chest.

With Finn’s insistence, I’d opted for a new management company.

“The best athletes have the best rep,” she’d said, early on. “I’ll make some calls for you.”

I hardly ever spoke with my old agent, but Michael calls to check in on me frequently, and he’d sent me a text about Expecting something great last night. I met him once and immediately understood what kind of man he is. The loud, boisterous kind. Like a mean-talking car salesman, except not mean.

“Sammy Braun!” he says, loud enough that I actually have to pull the phone away from my head for a second. When I put it back to my ear, he’s saying, “—face of their new men's performance line!”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I click the button on the side of the phone to turn the volume down.

“ Lululemon ,” he says, slowly, as though I might need a second to process it. It turns out, I do.

“Lululemon? What? Like... yoga pants Lululemon?”

“Like billion-dollar athletic wear company Lululemon,” he says.

It’s only Isaac and I out on the ice right now, drilling before practice, and I’m glad for that. If the other guys were here, they might be grilling me, or listening in.

Finn is up in the stands, but too far away to hear what I’m saying. I avoid looking at her and turn, shielding myself from her line of sight. If she sees me, I’m afraid she might read this terror on my face and come right over, demanding to know what’s going on.

Michael goes on, “Listen, kid, where are you right now?”

“On the ice.”

“Always on the ice—good man. Now, hold onto something. Are you ready?” When I say nothing—honestly too confused to actually respond—he goes on, “Two million for the first year, potential for three with bonuses. They want to develop a signature collection around your transformation story.”

“My transformation story,” I repeat, feeling numb, those figures flashing through my mind. I’ve been comfortable since coming to the NHL, but never rich . Not like Brett. Not like Grey. That cabin in Toronto was bigger and nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, reminding me that the difference between Brett and I was reflected pretty well in our pay.

“That’s right,” he says, and my phone vibrates. “Look at the stuff I sent you.”

I pull it away from my ear again and take my glove off with my teeth, tucking it under my arm and scrolling through the photos he’s sent me. Mock-ups of billboard designs. Me, in sleek athletic wear, positioned in front of a goal.

A short video starts, a rough outline of the commercial I might record. At the end, the script shows me saying, “It’s the science of self-belief.”

Michael’s voice buzzes through the speaker, and I bring the phone back to my ear. “They've been following your transformation this season on that YouTube channel. Genius marketing, by the way. The work with Dr. Asher, the improved stats, the way you've opened up about mental training in post-game interviews. It fits their brand perfectly—and that’s why they want you. It’s the intersection of physical and mental performance.”

“Oh,” I say, at a loss, the information entering my brain faster than I can work through it.

“But wait, there’s more,” Michael barrels on, like he’s starring in an infomercial. “They want Dr. Hartley involved too. They said they’re sending those materials over to her assistant later today, but it’s in your stuff. Separate deal, seven figures. You'd do some campaign shoots together, speaking engagements. Before you talk to her about this, we need to do some strategizing. See if we can get the scale tipped in your favor here, move some of the project’s money over to your end.”

My grip tightens on the metal railing. Through the glass, I can see Finn in her usual spot in the stands, tablet in hand, probably analyzing every move I've made this morning. When our eyes meet, she reads me just like I thought she would, tucking her tablet in her bag and getting to her feet.

“I know you’re working closely with her,” Michael continues, “but don’t discuss it with her until I can get us a private meeting with the Lululemon guys, alright?”

Finn rounds the corner and opens the gate to enter the Viper’s bench.

“Mhmm,” I hum.

There’s a look on Finn’s face—something like uncertainty, and I think about what she told me at the cabin. About her husband cheating on her. Getting another woman pregnant when all Finn ever wanted was to be a mother.

I end the call with Michael just as she reaches me, breathless. She’s gorgeous today, like she is every day. Dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, a fitted suit hugging her curves. I want to reach out and warm my hands up on her, tuck them into the crook of her neck, but I can’t.

“What was that?” she asks, her eyes flashing to my phone.

I want Finn to stay. With me. Not to return to California at the end of this. I can’t say that to her right now—or tell her that I love her—but I can do this. Be honest and open with her now. Show her that I’ll never try to hide anything from her.

Turning my phone screen, I unlock it in front of her so she can see the PIN—an embarrassingly easy 1-2-3-4. Then I hand it to her.

Her eyebrows shoot up, eyes darting between my face and the screen.

“What is this?”

“Michael called me,” I say, nodding my head down at the screen, waiting for her to look at the materials before I tell her everything he said.